Within the ballpark, time moves differently, by @Gaius_Publius

Within the ballpark, time moves differently

by Gaius Publius


August 1, 1910. New York Giants centerfielder Fred Snodgrass, whose 10th-inning error in the 1912 World Series shadowed him for the rest of his life, and beyond. Headline of his obituary in the New York Times: "Fred Snodgrass, 86, Is Dead; Ball Player Muffed 1912 Fly." (Source)


On baseball and time, the great sport writer (and writer) Roger Angell:

The last dimension is time. Within the ballpark, time moves differently, marked by no clock except the events of the game. This is the unique, unchangeable feature of baseball, and perhaps explains why this sport, for all the enormous changes it has undergone in the past decade or two, remains somehow rustic, unviolent, and introspective. Baseball’s time is seamless and invisible, a bubble within which players move at exactly the same pace and rhythms as all their predecessors. This is the way the game was played in our youth and in our fathers’ youth, and even back then—back in the country days—there must have been the same feeling that time could be stopped. Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time. You remain forever young. Sitting in the stands, we sense this, if only dimly. The players below us—Mays, DiMaggio, Ruth, Snodgrass—swim and blur in memory, the ball floats over to Terry Turner, and the end of this game may never come.

You remain forever young. The players below us — Mays, DiMaggio, Ruth, Snodgrass — swim and blur in memory, the ball floats over to Terry Turner, and the end of this game may never come.

Poetry. Also, baseball exactly.

GP
 

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